Joan Hess - Madness In Maggody

"You've come a long way, baby," I said to the closed door.

Brother Verber was crawling around under the mobile home when he saw feet. In that the feet were shod in sensible heels and walked with a missionary's determination, he was pretty sure he knew what all there was ankle upward. Rather than emerge to greet his caller, he scuttled into the shadows.

Mrs. Jim Bob rapped on the front door. "Brother Verber, it's Sister Barbara. Are you in there? I got something to discuss with you."

He shrunk farther into the shadows, where it was damper but darker and therefore muddier but safer. He felt as if the shower'd turned icy cold and he was buck naked in the spray. There wasn't any way she could know, he told himself. There wasn't any way anybody could know, not even Kevin and Dahlia, who'd looked a little confused when he'd ordered them to go pray for their forgiveness-somewhere else.

Her knuckles hit the door with such insistence, he could feel the mobile home vibrating. "Brother Verber?" she repeated stridently. "Brother Verber…?"

He put his knees right up to his chin and closed his eyes. He didn't bother to ask for divine guidance.

The next morning, I drove to Dahlia's house. She was sitting on the porch, a glass of tea and a box of cookies nearby, but her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were vacant.

"I need to ask you a few questions," I said as I opened the gate and went up the sidewalk.

"Okay," she murmured without looking up.

I sat on the edge of the porch and took out a notebook and pencil. "Let's start with the preparations for the grand opening on Saturday. When did you"-I consulted my list-"Erma Jean, and Feebie start fixing the food that was later passed out as free samples?"

"The night before. We went in at five and cooked till ten or so. There was some stuff that had to be fixed the next morning, like the ham rolls and cheese squares. That Petrel fellow was real strict about when we was to do what."

"What about the tamales?"

"I didn't do the tamales," she said dully. She took a cookie from the box, studied it for a moment, then put it in her mouth and chewed pensively. "I fried chicken wings until I was ready to scream. That's what I did. Everyone said they was real tasty. Did you try one?"

"I'm afraid I missed those. Who did the tamales? Erma Jean or Feebie?"

"I think it was Erma Jean. She opened the cans, cut them into pieces, and put them out nice and neat in a roasting pan. The sauce was simmering on the stove. The first thing next morning, she dumped it on the tamales and put the pan in the oven to heat up."

"So the tamale sauce was in the refrigerator all night?"

"She didn't take it home with her, if that's what you're asking."

"Did anyone come into the kitchen the next morning?"

"Nobody." This time Dahlia managed to transport three cookies to her mouth. Once she'd dealt with them, she said, "Can I ask you something, Arly?"

"Sure," I said, hoping it was relevant to the case but not optimistic.

"Is it blackmail when you tell someone they have to do something or you'll make them regret they was ever born?"

I perked up. "It could be, Dahlia. You'll have to tell me more details before I can be sure."

She sighed morosely and dipped back in the box. "I don't reckon I can. It's mighty personal, if you know what I mean."

"But I don't know what you mean," I said, trying not to sound too eager. If someone had coerced her into dumping ipecac in the tamale sauce, I didn't want to alarm her into silence. "If you'll give me a hint, I'll try to help you. Blackmail is illegal. If you've been forced to do something out of fear, then it's not really your responsibility. You're a victim."

"I am?" Her lips formed a tight circle and began to pucker in and out as she thought. Both cheeks and several of her chins inflated until I was worried about an explosion. "You're saying I'm a victim, right? I don't have to pay any mind to their threats? You can put them in jail?"

"Who're we talking about?"

"I can't say just now," she said, relieved enough to take a handful of cookies.

"Does this have anything to do with the problems at the SuperSaver?" I persisted. "If it does, you've got to tell me, Dahlia. You heard about Lillith Smew, didn't you? What may have started as a prank has taken a serious turn, and whoever's behind it has to be stopped."

All this sincerity wafted right over her head. She shook her head (chins and all) and said, "I can't say no more."

I lacked the physical superiority to shake it out of her, and I'd lived in Maggody long enough to learn the futility of arguing with certain people. There are some horses you can't even lead to water. "Let's go on to Monday evening," I said. "You went by the store to talk to Kevin. Did you see anyone else?"

"I saw Buzz Milvin. He came to the back of the store and was right unfriendly. He told me to leave, so I did." She was trying to sound haughty, but it didn't ring quite true. Watching her closely, I said, "Right away?"

Dahlia picked up the box of cookies, squeezed it so hard that I could hear crumbling inside it, then put it down and let out another sigh. "I may have detoured to the break room for a few minutes. Kevin and I had things to discuss."

"Wedding plans?"

"Not hardly."

There was something wrong with the story, but I couldn't quite get hold of it. Dahlia's veiled remarks about blackmailers-"them"-should have made some sense, should have done something besides confuse me all the more. But if her mind moved, then it did so in deeply mysterious ways and she wasn't about to offer me a map. I thanked her for her invaluable assistance and drove back to the PD to make a few notes.

"Now this is just between you and me," Barbie Buteo said over the telephone to Joyce Lambertino, who was stirring eggs with one hand, buttering toast with the other, and keeping an eye on Larry junior, who was feeding the baby pieces of cereal.

Holding the receiver with her shoulder wasn't making life any easier for Joyce, but Barbie had called long distance and it wouldn't be polite not to listen. "What's between you and me?" she said, doing her best to sound intrigued.

"You got to promise not to tell another soul. This was told to me in the strictest confidence-and it could cost someone her job."

"Then don't tell me." Joyce tossed pieces of toast to Saralee and Traci, dumped milk on Lissie's cereal, and snatched up Larry junior's glass of orange juice just as the baby lunged. "Maybe I ought to call you back," she added.

"It's about that Petrel fellow. I just wanted to warn you to lock all your doors and windows, Joyce. I know Larry Joe's gone all day, and I hate to think you and the children would be at the mercy of a madman."

The glass slipped out of Joyce's hand and splattered the floor in a yellow-orange explosion that delighted the spectators. "Mommie did a boo-boo," Larry junior cackled. Saralee, Lissie, and Traci giggled, and the baby threw a handful of Cheerios in the air. Everyone thought it was festive, except for Joyce, who'd turned rigid and was gulping like crazy.

She snapped at Larry junior to clean up the mess, then took the telephone and moved around to the far side of the refrigerator. "What on earth are you talking about, Barbie?" she whispered. "Petrel is Jim Bob's partner, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't know about that," Barbie said. "I'm only telling you this for your own good, Joyce, cause we were best friends in high school and I'm worried about you. The police arrested him for raping a bunch of girls, but he escaped from their clutches and is hiding in Maggody somewhere, waiting for a chance to brutalize some innocent girl or housewife. That kind don't stop until someone puts a bullet through their hearts-if they have hearts, anyway. He's an animal, a crazed wild animal out there watching and waiting." Joyce looked out the kitchen window at the tire swing, the sandbox with its collection of plastic trucks, buckets, and shovels, Larry junior's deflated basketball, and the usual crap she saw every day through that same window. A robin hopped across the yard and a squirrel was hanging from the bird feeder. Their dog, a scrawny tan mutt with a fondness for plastic trucks, lay on his side in the sun. It looked pretty normal, and it was hard to think of a rapist squatting behind the forsythia bushes.